The Fireside: Sense of Purpose
by Celty McMac
Summary: Ramezeth Crosse, driven from his home, tries to justify his existence while accompanying the Fraiture siblings on an expedition west.
1. Prologue: Midnight

PROLOGUE - MIDNIGHT

Ramezeth Crosse sat wrapped in a cloak beside a campfire. The ground that once held his garden had healed and grown wild. When he'd left it last, it was nothing better than a charred, useless chunk of land, and all that he had worked to cultivate for the years leading up to the raid on the Sanctuary had been destroyed. He couldn't remember where he'd set Baern's grave, for all the foliage.

The cabin was still a blackened husk. Structures never became green again, and that was a pity. Kairos had said that he built the thing all on his own, not that anything _Kairos _said could be taken as complete truth. No matter how it had gotten there, his home was still a beautiful thing before it had fallen to orc torches.

Arranul had wanted to come with him, but he'd stopped her, telling her that she had work, and it was something he rather preferred to do alone. She'd been offended, but he couldn't fathom why. Then again, he himself hadn't understood at the time why he would deny _her_, of all people, the right to attend. He couldn't really put his reasoning into words now, either. It just felt… _right_, being alone for this.

This place was sacred to him, this little clearing, this Sanctuary. Nobody else, not even Kairos who had built it, could understand that bond, and it seemed to him to be sacrilege for anyone to come here while he paid his respects.

Sacrilege. Such an odd choice of words for a holy knight who had turned from his church to champion a more secular cause. He was not against the idea of serving the gods, in fact he had a small shrine to the Tribunal in his home in Felwithe. Really, he'd not changed his habits concerning religion since falling out of love with the Church of Neriak, it was just more clear to him where his priorities lie now than it had been.

All his life, he'd believed that he served the dark Prince of Hatred, but Arranul had given him her theory that in reality, it was Neriak that he was so zealous over, and it was Innoruuk that gave him the power to do the city's will. The government itself, something of a theocracy, believed that its purpose was to see to it _Innoruuk's _will be done through Ramezeth.

Innoruuk, Arranul had figured, was pleased to see carnage wrought no matter what the shadow knight's goals were, and continued to give a less than adamantly faithful man the powers of a true servant. And Innoruuk didn't care about anything else but wanton destruction and misery. He didn't care about his children, the Tier'Dal, he didn't care about Ramezeth.

So, Ramezeth rejected Innoruuk, thinking that there were plenty of gods to choose from that actually had a place in their hearts for their followers. He'd settled on the gods of justice, but even then he found that some things were more important to him than the pleasure of the lords of the Planes of Power.

He needed something to set his eyes on, something that would stand before him and tell him that his loyalty was appreciated. He needed another Neriak. And there was one thing in his life that still held some great value.

Arranul.

He was the champion and willing servant of Arranul.

And, as the powerful weapon at his side could attest to, the gods were just fine with that.

"In you," Arranul told him once, "I see the spirit of a true knight, no matter what belief structure you follow, and I respected you even when we were enemies. Your fierce loyalty to whatever causes you choose to follow," ---she never once alluded to the fact that his blade and soul were hers, not for any reason he could understand--- "and the way you go about doing it mark you as such. I think that sword sees it in you."

He stirred the embers of his fire around for a bit, and craned his neck upwards to face the moon. It was full, and it illuminated the clearing with a good, strong silver light. The last time all of those he considered friends had been together was in this place. Now they were scattered, _twice_ now they'd been scattered.

So many had died, so many had simply faded into the background. The boy was old and ailing, a letter said. The twins had been silent for so long. That painting, he was sure, was the last time he'd see those three ever again. They'd enjoyed only two adventures as a group, that was so, but those had been so great in scale that they'd all been bonded to each other, the five of them, and the boy had gotten his wish.

Fat lot of good _that _had done. Lucan D'Lere had recently been pronounced supreme ruler of Freeport. So what if he didn't have the sword, Soulfire? When the boy died, he'd take it, or if the gods were truly benevolent, one of them would keep it from the Overlord. Certainly, the tyrant could hunt down a bunch of adventurers and slay them for it, but if he were to fight, say, _Rallos Zek_, that would put a bit of a dampening on his plans.

Ramezeth chuckled a bit at the thought. He looked at the steel gauntlet that made up his left hand, nothing more than a placeholder so that he had something to hold his shield on with. D'Lere had taken off that particular appendage, and Ramezeth harbored nothing but ill will towards the lich-thing. Not that warriors could _be _liches, but how else could D'Lere be described?

Of course, Ramezeth would have lost more than his hand in that fight if it weren't for Arranul. She was always there to pull him out of a bad situation, it seemed. Nobody who knew their history ever questioned his unwavering loyalty. She'd saved him from that mess with Anton D'Vinn, for starters, when the long-dead ambassador put a knife between his ribs. It was with that particular rescue in mind when she'd asked him to come with her west to inspect reports of an alarming number of undead in the dwarven lands.

Not that he'd anywhere else to go, with these ruins that he now sat amongst being his only belongings. In fact, he bet that the piece of rusted steel he had just spotted a few feet away was one the shattered remnants of his bastardsword, which had broken in the attack.

Shame, he had crafted the blade himself. The hilt had been a beautiful design, a black one with green veins running through it, and an emerald. The blade itself had been nearly perfect. Gods, he missed that sword.

Its replacement hummed at his side briefly, violently. The new blade had a measure of sentience, and it was jealous. He patted its scabbard reassuringly, a small grin playing on his face. However, the broken sword had played a part in the beginning of his journey into his lady's service, and he probably would never had come to her if it had not broken. Perhaps the loss of it had been fate.

He poked at the fire absently again, and soon found himself in the Sanctuary as it had been all those years ago.


	2. One: The Lord of Thorns

ONE - THE LORD OF THORNS

A hot summer day found Ramezeth squatting in his garden, fretting over some dead roses. The petals of the flowers had all fallen from the stems, leaving him with nothing but ugly, pointy brown-green rope. He grimaced. Baern had promised to look after the garden while his former commander was at market, two weeks' travel away.

Ramezeth stood and turned towards the cabin they shared, rage bubbling behind his stony expression. He marched through the front door into the kitchen, where the bald dragoon was (while waiting on some bread to finish baking) deep into one of Kairos' left over books.

"My roses," said Ramezeth with perfectly measured calm, "seem to have been poorly cared for, Baern. Care to tell me why?"

The dragoon sighed, not looking up from his book. "Sorry, Ramezeth," he said, his tone not carrying any sign of remorse. "I thought the forest would have kept the things alive on its own. I was more worried about hunting and the other garden, and, well, I forgot."

The "other" garden was more of a necessity than a hobby, and was in fact partially an orchard. It was where their fruits and vegetables were grown, and that was what sustained them through the winter months these past three years.

"Roses aren't adjusted to the climate of the Greater Faydark," Ramezeth said crossly. "They're more of a western—"

"Spare me the botany lesson, would you?" the other said sharply. He still hadn't raised his eyes from his page. It was so odd to think that he had once been little more than Ramezeth's property, with the rude, common way Baern spoke. His face twisted into a disgusted grimace. Ramezeth tensed, foreseeing conflict. Finally, Baern looked up, eyes smoldering.

"Look at you," he said. "All worked up over some dead plants. Is that any way for someone of your background to act?"

He snapped the book shut with one hand and slammed it onto the table, standing as he did. He stepped up until he was the only thing in Ramezeth's line of sight.

"You were a member of the Knights of the Dead," he growled. "You were good enough to do what those of us in the Indigo Brotherhood would lay in bed at night fantasizing over. You were one of the chosen sons of Innoruuk. The Father saw fit to give you the greatest of his gifts. You had strength once, you had status! You were soon to be the lord of your family's possessions! There were people who thought themselves blessed to look upon you. Now, you're _nothing_, you're not even worthy of wearing my spit."

He looked his housemate up and down slowly. Ramezeth reached out casually and shoved him back into his chair with one hand. Baern stared wildly up at him, not willing to move, but afraid of what the other might do if he remained there.

"I don't need titles, or fame, or even Innoruuk's precious necromancy to make you regret using such words with me, Baern. You'd do well to remember that."

He turned on his heel and headed back out the door.

…

Back in his garden, holding onto the few brown petals and rotting stems against his temple in one clenched fist, Ramezeth sat staring off into space. Blood flowed from the puncture wounds in his palm, trickling down his arm and cheek, but he didn't notice. He was angry with Baern. The dragoon's words stung him deeply, more than he was willing to admit, but he couldn't escape the fact that every word of it was truth.

Indeed, the oldest living child of the Crosse family was a position of high regard, as it would mean that he would someday have the reigns of the veritable army of soldiers that were trained by the nobles of that bloodline. It would mean also that he would have all the wealth in the city he desired. The Bartul family, Hwest I'stari's household, and the D'Flaacks, all incredibly influential on their own, were nothing more than playthings for the Crosses. They didn't so much as blink unless he gave permission, and they had to surrender a great deal of their earnings lest they earned his displeasure.

Tyraneth, the next in line, would be given the title of Lord Crosse after their parents died, unless Ramezeth's older sister returned from the dead. Ramezeth, however, would be left here, in the wilds, with nothing! The Lord of Rerem's Sanctuary, the Master of Squalor, a Few Trees, and Dead Roses.

He threw the remains of his flowers down at his feet, and studied the drops of blood that stained them. This is what he amounted to. This is what he had. He was nothing more than the Lord of Thorns.

…

In the mountainous lands west of the Faydark lies a great boiling lake called Dagnor's Cauldron. The goblins that inhabit this steaming, dangerous place speak in hushed tones of a dilapidated manor in a cavern at the northernmost point on the lake, the former home of a dwarf lord many years ago. They tell of the horrors that befell this place, a necromantic curse that holds the spirits of the master of that place and all of his serfs, human, elven, and dwarven alike in thrall and has driven them mad with rage and sorrow over all the years. The dwarves know of it as well, and they have dubbed it the Estate of Unrest. They make light of it this way in the hopes of someday forgetting it.

Blundgo Skullcrush, ogre general of the Crushbone armies wasn't overly fond of it, himself. But this was where the delegate from Neriak had insisted they meet, and so he found himself standing outside the entrance with an accompaniment of orcs and goblins. His soldiers all cast fearful glances around them, hands on weapons, as if they thought this cavern entrance would grow teeth and devour them. Blundgo didn't blame them; he felt apprehension as well.

"My master is waiting right inside, General," the runner from this latest ambassador's force said, hands clasped behind his back, wearing a polite frown. He was dressed in the open grey robes of a necromancer, and his hair was pulled back tight against his head. A too-thin frame (Blundgo could see his _ribs _in the open front of his robe!) and sharply slit eyes marked him further as a magic user.

Blundgo, of course, didn't trust him. He couldn't trust a fighter that had forsaken weapons entirely. Plus, after the Crosse and Kairos incident, he found himself slow to turn his back on any dark elves.

Those two had set his army back too far with their little prison riot. Years of careful planning and tactics had been rendered obsolete by the lack of supplies that came from the poisoning of the water supply and the iron ore at Crushbone Castle, not to mention the slaughter of all the members of the ruling council save him. Kairos had left the continent soon after, no doubt because the cowardly dog feared what Blundgo would do to him when he found the traitor. And he would have found him. Crosse was going to pay soon, if he hadn't already.

"Wait here," he ordered his entourage gruffly. Then he stepped into the cavern, and almost cried out in rage at what he observed there.

Sitting upon a rock, surrounded by bodyguards, was Ramezeth Crosse.

No. Not Ramezeth. He had not been given a name when he asked the runner, but he was sure that this was _a _Crosse, not _the _Crosse. The image of the treasonous ambassador, shield up to defend his ally against a deadly blow when he should have been the first to try and kill her, was burned clearly into his memory. He wouldn't mistake the face.

"Greetings, General," the knight said. "I am pleased that you agreed to come. I trust Khovalir's spell of transportation didn't leave you _too _disoriented."

Blundgo didn't respond. The knight frowned, and rose from his rock.

"Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Tyraneth Crosse. You may have heard of my family." Then, he smiled slyly. "Or at least one member thereof."

"Ramezeth," the ogre breathed.

"Indeed," Tyraneth said. His smile faltered and a shadow crossed over his face. "Our mighty Queen sends her condolences that my brother caused such a problem—"

"Her condolences!" Blundgo roared. "Does Cristanos not realize that her lack of discipline within her ranks may have lost me my war? What does your queen plan to _do _about it? We have lost our main supply of iron ore, and more tacticians than we could afford. It will take _months _to get our bearings together, during which we are vulnerable. I should hope, Crosse, that she plans to do more than give me her good will!"

Tyraneth smiled again, held up a hand in a placating gesture.

"Good General," he said. "We have that all under control. Do you know why I called you here to this place of death?"

"No," said Blundgo, "but I am sure you plan to tell me."

Tyraneth nodded, that unsettlingly wise smile not leaving his face.


End file.
